No Exit From Hogwarts
by the Scribe1
Summary: An Existential look at the Dream Team's Relationship based on Sartre's Huis Clos. R/H implied. Act Four's up.
1. Default Chapter

            **No Exit From Hogwarts**

                                by The Scribe

Warning: Existential Alert! Existential Alert! If you value sane thinking and sound logic, this is your cue to leave. If not, I recommend some Advil and a penchant for masochism.  

Disclaimer: Hogwarts and all of its inmates are the creation and property of J.K. Rowling. The plot of No Exit was the creation and property of J.P. Sartre, but he's been pushing up daisies for so long I figured he'd appreciate the added exercise that rolling in his grave'll give 'im. At least it's a change.   

Notes: Thank you Arabella for your excellent advice, which was never more needed than for this story. Set in Book Four...kinda...you'll see. Not really an AU fic. It could happen. g I guess it's an R/H fic. Wow. Cool. I didn't mean for it to have a ship. No fluff, though. Sorry.

**        Act One: Ron Weasley and the Silence of the Lanterns**

      The ceiling of the Great Hall was black. Not 'It's a moonless night' black. Or even a 'Goddam, if it ain't cloudy, Liza Manelli don't need a nose job' black. It was more of a 'is this outer space, or is there just no sky?' kind of darkness. 

      It was also impressively silent. The jack-o-lanterns from last night's Halloween feast were still perched high on the mantles of the huge, empty stone fireplaces, but the light had gone out of them too, leaving black eye sockets like those of a mummified skull, imperfectly preserved in some dank pirate's cavern or long-forgotten Egyptian booby trap. Hermione would undoubtedly have found them fascinating.

      But Hermione wasn't there. No one was there, even though the old wizard clock, a relic left by one of Rowena Ravenclaw's descendents years ago — before the lines of the four Hogwarts founders had been obscured by time and marriage — had just struck lunch time.

      The stillness that blanketed what was usually the busiest room in the castle felt unnatural. Wrong. Like Colin Creevey sitting placidly in a Gryffindor armchair while Harry Potter handed out splinters of his old Nimbus 2000. The empty chairs that flanked the long tables of the four houses stood at attention, like soldiers at a military funeral.

      In short, something was rotten in Hogwarts.

      Expectation wafted like Trelawney's stale perfume through the empty Hall, waiting, stifling, choking for something to happen.

      It didn't take long.

      The jack-o-lanterns' eyes kindled malevolently and the mammoth doors swung open like – well – like magic. 

A tall, thin man, with an undertaker's quiet and conciliatory manner, slowly entered, flanked by a flustered, red-faced, slightly confused wizard, whose ears flushed a deeper shade of vermilion than his face or his flaming hair.

      "Here you are, Mr. Weasley." the grave man gestured politely to a seat at the top of the Ravenclaw table.

      "I'm a Gryffindor," Ron replied distractedly, heading over to his accustomed seat. Only to feel a cold hand on his arm, gently but insistently arresting his movement.

      "We're past all that now," said the man. His voice resonated strangely in the corners of Ron's memory, as if the younger wizard had heard it somewhere before. He led Ron to the blue-clothed table, holding out a chair for him to sit in. Ron did as he was told without further protest.

      After a minute or two of silence, Ron spoke up, voicing an observation he hadn't realized he'd made. 

      "This isn't Hogwarts." 

      "What makes you say that?" the man inquired.

      "I dunno... I guess it's just... not. No one's here and it's too, uh... quiet, I s'pose..." He rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. When he took his hand back down the sweat that covered it reflected the flickering flames from the pumpkins that provided the only light. 

      "'S really hot." He finished lamely.

      After another short silence, the man smiled. 

      "You are a very intelligent young man, Mr. Weasley. And you are correct. This is not Hogwarts. And it is rather hot."

      This somehow did not comfort Ron. He fidgeted nervously.

      "Where are we, then? How did we get here? The last thing I remember is the feast... I think...I...it's all confused."

      "You're the first here," the usher replied, ignoring the question. "The others will be arriving shortly."

      Ron opened his mouth to ask who the 'others' were, but the man cut him off.

      "If you need anything," he said calmly. "Use this." He curled his fingers into a loose fist, rotated his hand, then flicked it out, exposing a small, silver bell resting on his palm.

      "How did you...." Ron gaped, searching for a wand.

      "But I must warn you," the man continued, handing him the bell. "My bells have been known to malfunction." And he walked away, pulling the giant doors closed behind him.

      Ron jumped up from his seat at Ravenclaw table and ran to the doors. He tried the handles; they didn't budge. Resting his back against them, he rubbed a hand across his sweaty forehead. The lanterns flickered silently and watched him slide to the floor.

      **Act Two: Hermione, Queen of... Which House Again?**

"I demand to know who you are." The calm, assertive voice rang like a siren in the ear Ron was resting dejectedly against the heavy door.

      "Hermione," He whispered. Then, shaking his head, he jumped to his feet, shouting at the top of his voice and pounding the dark wood with sudden, fist-bruising hope. "Hermione! Help! Let me outta here!" 

      "Ron?" the reply was muffled by his frantic yells. Ron was concentrating all of his strength into pulling on the wrought-iron handles. They still didn't move. 

"Hermione!" He yelled again. He couldn't even hear her answer. He reached automatically for his wand, realizing with a frustrated groan that he didn't have one. "Alohomora!" he screamed, kicking the door and stubbing all five of his toes.

He fell back to lean against the nearest table, Hufflepuff, so he could check the damage. No sooner had he left the flagstones that circled the entrance, however, than the huge doors swung easily open, admitting the usher and a very pretty, if slightly bushy-haired, fourteen-year-old witch. Ron was too stunned to make a break for the open passage. 

      "Hermione," he said hoarsely.

      "Yes, I know my name, and I heard you the first time – when you were bellowing it like a maniac and probably waking the whole castle! _What they'll imagine we were doing, I don't even want to contemplate."_

      A little pink "oh" was all that could be seen of Ron's mouth. He was just about to answer when she caught her breath.

      "And what are you doing out of bed this late? Traipsing around in the invisibility cloak with Harry, I supp—"

      "Like you've never 'traipsed!'"

      "What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded indignantly.

      "I dunno, why don't you ask the _Daily Prophet? I'm sure Rita Skeeter would __love to spell it out!" he shot back, forgetting his fear in the familiar rush of battle._

      "Ron Weasley!" she screeched, balling her hands into fists at her sides, "Harry, you had just better be standing between us, because if I get my hands on him, I'll—"

       "Now, now," said the usher placidly, gliding a gentle hand onto 

each of their shoulders. "There will be plenty of time for discussions." He lifted a finger from Hermione's shoulder and a yellow-draped chair immediately slid out from the head of Hufflepuff table.

      "Thank you," she said politely, stepping back. "But I'll just head over to my House table—"

      "You're very welcome," was the cheerful reply.  "But slightly mistaken. This _is your House table."_

**Act Three: In Which All Hell Breaks Loose **

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      Ron snorted. He couldn't help it. The blood of Fred and George _did run through his veins, after all; he knew a good joke when he came across it._

      Of course, there wasn't a worse thing he could have done.

      Hermione went pink.

      "And what do _you find so funny?" she asked, with narrow eyes._

      "N-nothing," he choked, through tightly closed lips that quivered ever-so-slightly with the threat of laughter.

      "I'll have you know, I'm just as much a Gryffindor as you!"

**_      "There's no doubt about that, Miss Granger," the usher interjected. "You are quite as suited to Gryffindor as Mr. Weasley. But that isn't really the question at hand. You're 'just as much' of a Slytherin as he is, too. None at all. What you should contemplate is whether he is as Hufflepuff as you, or you are as Ravenclaw as he."_**

      "Why should I contemplate that? It's a moot point. We're both Gryffindors; that's where the Sorting Hat put us. That means we are not Hufflepuffs, we are not — wait. Did you just say he's a Ravenclaw?"

      "Yes, I did," smiled the usher. 

      There was a brief silence.

      Hermione's scream was loud enough to wear the echoes out.

Then she got a hold of herself. She took a deep breath, and smiled pleasantly, almost too pleasantly. "I know," she continued with a sudden smile. "This is a nightmare."

**_      The usher gave her a strange look. Turning away, he muttered something that sounded like "Closer than you think, my dear..." Raising his voice, he continued. "I must leave you, I'm terribly sorry. If you have need of me — Mr. Weasley, I believe you still have my bell?"_**

      "Huh?" Ron's ears were still ringing from Hermione's wail. "Uh... yeah," he replied, his eyes falling on a small glimmer of silver on the stones by the door. 

      "Good evening, then," called the usher, not turning as he walked out of the doors that flew open at his approach. They slammed shut behind him with a cold finality that made the two fourth-years shiver, despite the unnatural heat. 

                  To Be Continued. . .

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Send e-mail to **THE TENDO DOJO @aol.com **

Or you might find yourself in a room warmer place than Ron...

And look out for  **Act Four: Harry Gets Things Sorted Out.**


	2. Harry Gets Things Sorted Out

No Exit From Hogwarts: Act IV By the Scribe  
  
Author's Notes: Ye GODS! It's been almost a year! Well, I suppose that means I should begin this with some quick groveling and hasty excuses and hurry up with the ending. I haven't abandoned this or any of my other stories, but I just moved away and started college and it's really the first opportunity to get some serious writing done, this vacation. So anyway, sorry and I'll get started on the middle and ending now. Really!  
  
Act IV: Harry Gets Things Sorted Out  
  
Time passed, and Hermione seethed. SHE a Hufflepuff? Not that there was anything wrong with the Hufflepuffs, she thought hastily, but after all, she was a GRYFFINDOR. It was who she was. Over the past four years her house had become as much a part of her identity as her bushy hair, preference for sugarquills, and top marks. And she would be just as upset if she had been forced to sit at Ravenclaw table. Really. She repeated similar thoughts as her fingernails sunk deeper and deeper into the wood of the table in front of her. Ron coughed and edged his chair a bit closer to Ravenclaw table. He was seriously confused. So confused that the humor of seeing Hermione for all intents and purposes labeled dumber than him had already lost its charm. Well, most of it, he thought as he heard the massive table behind him move forward a centimeter under the force of her grip. He had to admit that he was shocked, too. He had never considered himself all that bright. Sure, he'd never forgotten the existence of his magic powers in a crisis situation - Hufflepuff table shifted clairvoyantly - but everyone knew that Hermione was the brains, Harry the brawn, and he was the comic relief of their little trio. Even in his family Percy and Bill were the N.E.W.T. winners and Charlie and the twins were the best at Quidditch. It was interesting to be sitting at the smart table for once. But he had bigger things to worry about. Like the fact that an obvious reason for their current situation was now coming to mind. Who could possibly want to capture Harry Potter's two best friends? It wouldn't explain everything, but it was a pretty good starting point. "So, how many Death Eaters d'you think would get us if we found a way to open that door?" he asked. Hermione looked up in surprise. She'd been too busy trying to take in the consummation of her greatest fear - that she wasn't really that bright, after all - to have considered their strange situation too thoroughly. "Death Eaters?" she repeated, still uncomprehending. Then understanding came to her cheeks in a joyful flush. She jumped to her feet and rushed over and hugged him. His ears turned pink. "Of COURSE! It's all a trick! Voldemort's somehow brought us here, to a place that looks familiar, but put us at completely ridiculous tables to throw us off balance!" "Completely ridiculous? What do you mean by that?!" Ron's ears turned from pink to red at the implied insult. "What, I'm too dumb for Ravenclaw?" Hermione closed her mouth quickly. But not for long. "No. I didn't say that. You aren't dumb, Ron. But let's face it, you aren't exactly a Ravenclaw. I mean, you never study unless I make you, and look at your grades." Ron's eyebrows rushed down to meet in the center of his sweaty forehead. "I see. Well isn't it funny how I'm such an idiot, yet I'm the only one trying to figure out how we got here." "I, but," Hermione stuttered, embarrassed. "Well, it's obviously some trick of Voldemort's." "Yeah," Ron mused, thinking things through more thoroughly than he usually took the time to. "But why would he go to the trouble of 'throwing us off balance' like this? It's not really his style to spend this much effort on a couple of hostages. Making a fake Great Hall and everything. Wouldn't he just tie us up and throw us in some Death Eater hideout. Or use the Cruciatus or Imperious or Killing Curse? He isn't exactly known for his squeamishness and delicacy." Hermione opened her mouth to say something, but didn't seem to know exactly what that should be. He was right, the scenario wasn't very characteristic of Voldemort. You-Know-Who would save his mind games for bigger threats, like Harry or Dumbledore. Her eyes opened wide. Harry. "Where's Harry, then?" She shot out. "That's what we should be thinking of. If this is some kind of trap to draw him out, he's probably in bigger danger than us. When was the last time you saw him?" Ron's eyes narrowed at the nervous edge to her voice. That worried about Harry, was she? How cozy. It didn't matter if that stupid git Ron was boiling to death right in front of her. As long as Harry was okay, we can all rest easy in our beds. "Oh, of course you'd worry about poor Harry," he snarled. "Of course." Hermione was confused by the accusation she heard in Ron's voice, and didn't half like it. "He's our best friend and he's got a really powerful Dark Wizard trying to kill him on a fairly regular basis. Where did you see him last?" "Some of us have better things to do then follow the comings and goings of the Great Harry Potter," he retorted immediately. "It's hard to believe, I know, seeing as how he's so dreamy and perfect and rich and a Champion and See-" "What's wrong with you? You say those things like they're bad. Harry works hard at Quidditch, and he never wanted to be a Champion. I thought you two were past that whole thing. I mean, after the first task." "I know he didn't put his name in the Goblet, Hermione. I don't need you to tell me. I'm the one sitting at the smart table, after all. Why don't you trot on back to the 'hard working' section?" He smirked patronizingly. Hermione gave an inarticulate squeak, too furious to form words. After a second Ron seemed to register exactly what he had said and was torn between apologizing and running for his life. Before he could do either, the sound of footsteps turned their attention to the humongous doors. "Sorry," said a familiar voice. "But I didn't catch your name." They looked at each other. "Harry." Ron was on his feet in an instant and they ran towards the door, their anger forgotten. They were two yards away when the doors swung open again, revealing the strange man and a slightly confused, but ever polite Harry. "You can call me the Usher, if you like," the man was saying as he gestured the doors shut behind him. With a smile and nod at the other two teenagers, the Usher placed a hand on Harry's shoulder and tried to steer him towards the House tables. Harry had caught sight of his friends, however, and shook off the guiding hand. "Ron! Hermione! You're here to," he mused, stepping towards them. "Yes, yes. We're all here now," his escort said quickly. "You must all have a seat, though. It's much too hot to be standing about." The room suddenly seemed to jump ten degrees in temperature. Sweat streamed in little rivers down the foreheads of the trio, and Ron began to wonder if it wouldn't be better to put out the Jack o' Lanterns by the Slytherin table, as they weren't using it anyway and had enough light, really, as it was. He had just collapsed into a chair at the nearest table (Ravenclaw) and Hermione had fallen back onto the seat closest to her (a Hufflepuff, but hadn't she been right next to him a second ago? ) when the Usher pulled out a seat at Slytherin table, and held it for Harry. Harry stared at the man blankly. "I'm not sitting in Malfoy's chair," he blurted, forgetting his manners. He turned towards the Gryffindor table.  
  
"Of course," the Usher replied apologetically. He slid Draco Malfoy's customary seat back, and pulled the seat next to it out. "There you go." Harry glanced around at the rest of the Hall, took in Hermione at Hufflepuff, Ron at Ravenclaw, and the empty Gryffindor table. Slowly, he turned his eyes back to the Usher, looked at him for a wordless moment, then took the seat offered him. The Usher smiled. "Well, now everyone's settled, I'll leave you to it. Mister Weasley has my bell, if any emergencies come up. Farewell." He bowed at them all and walked out. The three friends looked at each other from their separate tables as the heavy clap of the boors shutting echoed through the hazy room. "Well, this is rather uncomfortable," Harry mused, turning his gaze away and running his sleeve across his forehead.  
  
  
  
Notes: Ah, so much for Act IV. At least it's an update! Act V: The Green Eyed will be out much MUCH sooner than this was, I swear! 


End file.
